Last Night In The Kashmir
by ExtremeModerate
Summary: New Year's Eve 1959: Rapture's last night as an ordered society, as told by Diane McClintock, Steve Barker, and others in the Kashmir Restaurant that night. The conflict between altruism and objectivism, and which one we choose, factors in majorly.
1. Chapter 1: A Lonely New Year's Eve

**Last Night in the Kashmir**

"_The Lord created the world in six days, and that's why we've got six targets. Mainly, we'll be focusing on the Olympus Heights area. Friedman, you need to take three-fifths of us. Leave Fontaine's Home for the Poor and go to Olympus Heights. Once you get there, use the tram system to attack the following areas: Central Bistro Square, Mercury Suites, and Athena's Glory. Focus on the last place especially. It has its own private tram. There's only one way in, and only one way out. Once you're all in, crash the tram to seal off the building and don't leave until everyone in there is taken care of. If you find any working people in any of these places, don't lay a finger on a hair of their heads unless they don't commit to our cause. Now, LaLiberte, you're going to lead one-fifth of us to Arcadia where you're going to take out the Tea Garden. I myself will lead another fifth of us to the Fleet Hall where they've got a big New Year's floor show going on. And you, my friend, are going to lead the rest of us in the raid on the Kashmir Restaurant."_

Recorded instructions for the 1959 New Year's Attack

_**Rapture**_

_**December 31**__**st**__**, 1958**_

**Diane McClintock**

The sound of saxophones, clinking dishes, and laughter permeated the smoky atmosphere of the Kashmir Restaurant. It was New Year's Eve, the biggest holiday in Rapture. Nobody really paid attention to Christmas in this city six miles beneath the Atlantic surface. December 25th had come and gone without a blip on most people's radar. New Year's, on the other hand, was an appropriately secular holiday for a society that put most of its trust in The Great Chain of Industry rather than in God. Thus, all the celebration that people on the surface packed into Christmas and New Year's was stuffed into one single night down in Rapture. Diane McClintock sat alone at her table in the Kashmir's dining room underneath a gigantic statue of the god Atlas. Her short blond hair and pallid eyes were given a carrot-like illumination from the lively red neon of a circular sign suspended above her that read "HAPPY NEW YEAR 1959." She drew the Oxford Club cigarette she was smoking from her mouth and blew an acrid gray cloud out of her nose, which went on to mingle with similar scents from other cigarettes, making the whole restaurant smell like a gigantic ashtray. Diane looked across the table over her empty cake plate, party hat, new Accu-Vox audio diary, and floral handbag, to where the empty chair sat facing her. Despite the fact that it was just a short cocktail chair, it carried all the authority of the man who should be sitting in it. But Andrew Ryan, the Russian-American businessman who had built Rapture and taken Diane for his mistress when he knew her in New York, was conspicuously absent from the New Year's Eve ball he was billed to attend. Some of the other patrons had noticed his absence, but were too busy dancing, gossiping, or getting knocked up on vodka to care. While Diane had been drinking too, the alcohol had not been able to remove the sting of getting stood up yet again. She'd received too many audio diaries over the past few weeks filled with Ryan's excuses for having to leave her out in the cold on this date or that. Now, as Diane extinguished her cigarette in the table's ashtray, the thoughts she had been wondering for weeks rushed to the fore of her mind: was it time to get over Andrew Ryan? Being the mistress of the most powerful man in Rapture had its perks and brought no finite amount of status, but Diane had to ask herself: was it was it really worth it when she was feeling torn up inside? She wanted to go up to Ryan and tell him that Fontaine had been dead over three months now and he didn't have to work those long hours scheming up ways to make the Great Chain of Industry work for him rather than his late rival. But he never gave her the chance because he was still buried himself in his office in the Hephaestus section of the city.

The jazz playing over the Kashmir's speakers was cut off as the public address system crackled to life, playing the string music that accompanied any _From the Desk of Ryan_ segments. Ryan's own voice came over the PA just moments later:

"To my friends, the good people of Rapture, Happy New Year."

The people in the Kashmir momentarily stopped dancing or talking to stare at the nearest speaker.

"I am sorry I am not able to be with you all on this occasion, but important business has constrained me to my office. Nevertheless, I implore you to enjoy this night to its fullest. Not only are we to welcome in a new year, but in the process celebrate our triumph over the forces that have caused this city and its people so much trouble over the past years. Tonight, we celebrate not only the passing of 1958 into 1959, but the victory of free markets over smuggling, the victory of free thought over a revival of religious superstition, and the victory of free men over parasites!"

The patrons broke out into applause and cheers.

"We all remember the day just three months ago when Frank Fontaine and his gaggle of parasitic smugglers who so maliciously attempted to subvert our way of life were eradicated from our midst. Tonight we celebrate the symbolic meaning their deaths should be given, as a passing from trying times back to order. I have said before and will say again that Rapture's objectivist philosophy is not worth having if it is not tested. It has been tested, and it has pulled through. Thus, celebrate the night my friends! It is yours to celebrate!"

The cheers heightened in intensity as Ryan's speech wrapped up. Diane just sighed and took another long swig from the bottle of Chechnya Vodka next to her. She drained the bottle dry and let it fall over onto its side when she put it back down on the table. Her vision was getting hazier, and the people who were dancing and laughing in the adjacent cocktail lounge were getting blurry. She turned around to look behind her. Aside from the floor-to-ceiling window that wrapped around the dining room and provided nothing more than a rather depressing view of the Medical Pavilion buildings, Diane could see the young family at the table behind her she'd been spying on all night. It consisted of a father in a three-piece suit, probably a banker, with his blonde wife and young daughter. The daughter was not paying attention to her parents, but rather was off in her own little world, playing with her blue and white party hat as a makeshift doll. Diane could only guess how much her father had paid to keep her out of the Little Sister program. Diane had turned around because the wife's raucous voice was bawling out the unfortunate waiter she'd summoned.

"You call that sirloin?" she demanded, pointing to the large steak on her plate with a fork. "If you tried to serve that at any respectable hotel in New York they'd laugh you out of town!"

"Our apologies madam," the waiter said with strained patience. "I'll have the kitchen take care that."

"Well make it quick!" she said, thrusting the plate at him.

Diane sighed again.

"I'm going to the little girl's room," she said to nobody in particular. She grabbed her handbag and stood up to go.


	2. Chapter 2: The Gentlemen's Club

**James "Jim" O'Toole**

The Kashmir's small kitchen was a blizzard of activity. The restaurant had over two-hundred of Rapture's rich-and-famous, its most frequent clientele, in its two-floor facility for its annual New Year's Eve ball. Since Brenda Applebaum, the owner of the Kashmir, had given her restaurant a reputation for throwing the best New Year's Eve party in the city since 1946, her kitchen staff was under a lot of stress to give the snappiest yet highest-caliber service to the Kashmir's highly discriminating customers. This task was not an easy one for a staff of seven, and their increasingly dwindling morale was only shot down further when the waiter burst in with a re-order.

"Friggin' elites!" yelled Barry Hanlon, the kitchen supervisor as he stirred some crab bisque in a big pot. He hurriedly threw the rejected steak away and posted the re-order for one of the other cooks to take care of. "I mean, what did she do, splice her taste buds so she could turn her nose up at any food unless it was made by God Himself?!" The cooks and runners who heard the joke chuckled at it. They were willing to laugh at just about anything now. Hanlon went back to stirring his bisque.

"Dang, the Rapture elite! Why the heck did an upper class evolve, when this city was designed so that we'd all be equal? And by equal, I mean designed so that we would all have an equal chance at becoming captains of industry. Well," he snorted. "We do, but I guess most of us forgot that in any society, somebody's got to scrub the toilets."

"And cook the steaks," shouted a cook.

"And wash the dishes!"

Jim O'Toole, an eighteen year-old working his first job as a dishwasher/odd-job-man for the Kashmir, stood over the tripartite industrial sink scrubbing the grease off a big cooking pot. His gloves and brillo pad were stained black. The hot water in two of his three basins was dark as well. Barry, still stirring, looked over at Jim with a glance of sympathy, knowing that he had started from a position not unlike that back when he was growing up in Chicago.

"Good call, Jim!" he said. "We'll make kitchen staff out of you yet!"

"Yeah, keep it up new guy!" called Carl, the only Negro cook.

"That would be an honor, sir." replied Jim. Jim was quite thankful for his job. Most of the staff in here had either come from Apollo Square or Fontaine's Home for the Poor, and Jim, being not from either of those working class districts, had not expected the kitchen staff to welcome anyone who was not of their own stock. Yet they had welcomed him and were rather friendly with the new guy. Perhaps it was the common stress of living under Brenda's nigh-constant whiny haranguing that bonded them all. He continued scrubbing the pot. To Jim's left, a gigantic stack of plates, cooking trays, beer glasses, and pots was waiting to be washed. Barry noticed it.

"Jim, don't worry about that grease. It's on the outside of the pot, and besides, what these elites don't know won't hurt them. Just put the pot in the sterile rinse and give it to Carl, then get cracking on the rest of that crap."

"No problem." Jim hurried to give the pot to Carl, and then abruptly straightened the paper crew cap he was wearing on his head before hopping back to his sink. Brenda had just entered the kitchen.

"Boys, you need to hurry it up! How many orders are you behind…fifteen? Oh my _God_! Speed it up already! That's fifteen customers you're cheesing off!" Her chainsmoking New York accent permeated all corners of the kitchen. Jim was surprised some tiles didn't chip off the walls whenever she spoke.

"Mrs. Applebaum, with all _due _respect," said Barry as he spooned crab bisque into bowls. "We're moving as fast as we can without sacrificing the Kashmir quality your customers expect."

"Well _I _expect you to be able to cram that same quality into a smaller time window. It's New Year's Eve, for heaven's sake! We've got a reputation to live up to! Oh, and Jim,"

"Yes?"

"Be a dear and go clean out the ashtrays in the gentlemen's club upstairs. They're getting filthy."

"Yes ma'am, I can do that."

Without saying thank you, Brenda's red dress, blond hair, and glittering earrings swooped out of the kitchen and back into the cocktail lounge.

"Geez," snorted Barry. "Nothing like helping us out a little in here."

Before leaving, Jim stared at the pile of dishes he still had waiting for him.

_It's only going to get taller anyway_, he muttered to himself before grabbing the dustpan and scooper. _Not like that's bad. It's just more time on the clock and more money for me anyway. _

Jim left the kitchen and could've sworn he'd stepped into a petting zoo. Around him swarmed men, women, and children wearing rabbit, cat, and bird masks they'd bought from the hostess. While usually the Kashmir's New Year's Eve party had some maritime theme like "tropical island" or "King Neptune," this year the Kashmir was holding the first "annual" Rapture Masquerade Ball for its New Year's celebration. Jim thought little of it at the time, but he remembered later that hiding one's face had become a very popular fad recently, especially among those who had been treated with ADAM.

Instead of breathing in smoke from the kitchen, Jim was now breathing in smoke from these patrons. He gave off a million excuse me's and pardon me's as he edged his way through the laughing, chattering crowd. The singer Anna Culpepper had made an appearance earlier in the evening. She had gone since then and the stage was empty save two stacks of speakers and a microphone, but many masked husband-and-wife couples were dancing slowly while masked children, all boys, in tuxedoes tried to chase each other through the smoke-filled choke. Jim made his way up the stairs past the giant modern art painting and up to the Kashmir's main lounge. In the blur of people and smoke, he could barely make out the streamers, bows, and oversized masks strung up everywhere for decoration. The Kashmir must have tuned in to Rapture Radio, because the sound system on the column behind the hostess's desk was churning out Bobby Darin.

"_Somewhere beyond the sea, she is there watching for me. If I could fly like birds on high, then straight to her arms, I'd go sailin'."_

As Jim made it to the top of the stairs, two little girls dressed in kitten masks darted past him into the smoking lounge.

"Well there's a rare sight," said Jim to himself. One thing people in Rapture didn't see very often anymore were young girls, at least young girls with healthy skin tone and normal eyes. The reach of the Little Sister program was great. Only the richest who could afford to pay were able keep their daughters out of it. The razor-thin middle class in Rapture had a moderate chance, but the great masses of working poor had no hope. Jim remembered that just four months ago when he stepped out of his parents' apartment to go job-hunting he had seen his neighbors' daughter, Masha, playing with sidewalk chalk in the street. The next day as he went out again, he only saw Masha's mother crying hysterically over her daughter's chalk drawing. Jim asked the distraught woman what was the matter. On her knees, she gripped him by his shirt and sobbed that several of Ryan's men had taken Masha last night with the only justification being that she was needed to help save Rapture. Jim knew from propaganda messages that Masha had disappeared into the laboratories of Point Prometheus.

Jim made it to the gentlemen's club, which consisted of two teal lounge chairs, a brown leather couch, and a large cylindrical ashtray near the Kashmir's entrance. Some men were sitting there with cigars in their mouths.

"Excuse me," said Jim. "I just have to clean out the ashtray."

"Sure, no problem," said the man nearest him. This man was the only one in the gentleman's club wearing a rabbit mask. "Don't mind us."

The men continued their conversation as if Jim weren't even there.

"Did you see the new banner they hung up in the Transit Hub? The one that says 'Altruism is the Root of all Wickedness'?"

"Of course I did, my wife and I noted it on the way here. Couldn't agree with it more myself. After all, why should I give what I have worked for to those who haven't? And, even more to the point, why should I be forced to by any government? That's penalizing me for doing my utmost and rewarding them for doing nothing. That's why I came to Rapture. I wouldn't have to deal with any of that."

"My thoughts exactly."

The man with the rabbit mask spoke up next. "Mm, do you remember when we were on the surface and altruism was considered a virtue by so many? The Boy Scouts, the Catholic Church, the Elks Club. They all thought the highest duty in their lives was to ultimately set themselves aside for others. What rubbish, eh?"

"I couldn't have said it better myself. We all remember what Roosevelt did to combat the Great Depression?"

"Oh, don't remind me!"

"He listened to the people," said the man in the rabbit mask. "The broad, teeming mass of people. He heard their cries for relief, he let them ignite the spark of compassion in his heart, and what came out of it? The New Deal. The single worst attempt in American history for the government to steal undue power from the individual, and a failed way to set right the economy, I might add. You know, I bet that if the government had left us alone, businesses would've made all the corrections earlier and the Depression could've been over in '35 or so. But no. Roosevelt forced the wrong corrections down our throats. I had a drill factory. Before the crash I had a good-sized staff, but once the Depression hit I had to lay many off just to stay afloat. Of course my former employees had no income, but at least those who could stay on did and had a way to support their families. Then those who got laid off cried to Roosevelt: put a moratorium on layoffs! So he did. And guess what happened next? My drill factory went out of business. And why is that such a tragedy? Because good men who would've stayed on lost their jobs along with those who would've been laid off anyway. More people lost their jobs than was necessary and more suffering was forced upon their backs because the government tried to help them. I tell you, whenever the government tries to help the people, they always seem to end up hurting them!"

"Gah, _the people_"said another. "Most dangerous phrase anyone could ever come up with. All throughout history, it's been _the people _who in essence have knocked civilization back a notch or two. Majority rule, democracy, only puts the power in the hands of a bunch of whiny, easily manipulated cattle who think only about the here-and-now and know nothing about the way the world works. That's why in democracies we see horrible things like the New Deal coming about. If you ask me, _the people_ should never have been given power in the first place. It's _the people _who were stupid enough to sell their stocks and begin the selling panic that led to the Great Stock Market Crash of 1929. It was _the people _who exacerbated the Depression they brought down upon their own heads by petitioning the government to help them. And it was _the people _who led the bloody and disastrous French Revolution, supported the rise of the Bolsheviks in Russia and the Maoists in China, and gave Hitler his throne. If you ask me, _the people _need a muzzle put on them. Everything these social democrats, these syndicalists, socialists, communists, anybody who speaks well of democracy, says is a load of garbage. It is liberty they should be concerned with. Liberty to work, to speak, to think, to build! Not the yoke of majority rule so many idiots up on the surface so willingly let the social democrats place upon their heads. And so," he said, turning again to the rabbit-masked man, "it was your experience with the New Deal that turned you off to altruism forever?"

"Of course. I've always thought that an individual can complete tasks better than a group. As Mark Twain said, the effectiveness of a committee is directly proportional to its size. Therefore, a committee of one should be the most effective force available in society. But unfortunately Western civilization has been corrupted by the thought that we can all do better as a team. What bull. Everywhere it's been tried, it's failed. Sweden, the Soviet Union, everywhere altruistic socialism was put in place the economy slowed and the people suffered, but they turned a blind eye to it because their precious governments placated them with discounted food, free medical care, free housing, free whatever. Their standard of living was stripped from them, as was their liberty, and their governments fed off of both while enriching themselves. Gentlemen, that is the society of the parasite in action!"

"I tell you, when it comes to the parasite, it all boils down to force. Humans have a fatal love affair with power, and the best way to exercise power is to use force on someone else. It's disgusting."

"And force can be anything related to altruism," continued the rabbit masked-man. "The government taxing the rich for wealth redistribution, the petitioning group pressuring Congress to issue more food stamps, even the charity organization collecting money for the poor. When I was living in Los Angeles I walked into a supermarket around Christmastime and a Salvation Army lady was out front ringing her bell. She saw my attire and asked me for a donation, describing the conditions the poor live in. She was trying to guilt me into giving my money to a bunch of squatters! Guilting, taxing, coaxing, they're all forms of force! And so you know what I did? I told her to let the poor lift themselves up, as they're capable of it. She just told me that selfishness like that would cause God to frown on me send me to hell. Then I told her I have no fear of hell or her god, because neither of them exists."

"Hmph. Selfishness. Why do the parasites have to hate it so much? Selfishness isn't bad. It's the desire to improve oneself, to compete with others to offer improved services. It is incentive! When linked with reason, it is the basis of a working civilization! Rapture was running fine on that until Fontaine came in to screw it up."

"Yeah, but Fontaine is dead. We don't have to worry about him anymore."

Jim worked as the men continued their talk. As he popped the top off the tray and began scooping the ashes and dead butts into the dustpan, he saw a petite blond woman he recognized from pictures as Diane McClintock. She made her was up the stairs from the cocktail lounge/dance floor towards the ladies' room. Jim could've sworn he saw a tear trickle out from her left eye.


	3. Chapter 3: Splicing Ain't Pretty

**Diane McClintock**

_"I know beyond a doubt my heart will lead me there soon. We'll meet and, oh, we'll meet beyond the shore. We're gonna kiss just as before. And happy we'll be beyond the sea, and never again will I go sailin'."_

Diane couldn't help but tear up at that line. She wished those lyrics could describe her and Ryan, but Ryan seemed interested only in sailing to his office. She blew past the phone bank and laughing men in the smoking lounge and into the ladies' room. She preemptively reached inside her handbag to feel around for her makeup kit, but instead her hands came to rest on a bulky object. She peeked inside the bag and instantly shut it after the familiar blue glow greeted her. It was the EVE Hypo she kept handy in case she began to, as the advertisements said, "run on empty." Like most women in Rapture, Diane had had ADAM treatments in order to keep up her appearance for Ryan. However, she'd taken the treatments not because she wanted to, but because everybody else was. Now, while Diane had to take EVE periodically, she was ashamed she could not keep up her good looks naturally.

In the vestibule outside the men's and women's restrooms was a table with a vase of flowers. Near the flowers Diane noticed an empty perfume bottle lying on its side. There two initials carved in fancy white lettering on the upturned side: "ST."

_What? Is Sandra here?_

Diane stepped past the sign that said "DAMES" where the sound of music and laughter was muffled by the thick tiles. It was here that Diane heard a woman crying. She peeked in and recognized a blond woman in a short yellow sequined dress sobbing over a sink. Her cat mask was still strung around her ears, but had been pushed up on her forehead so she could cry more easily. She was muttering to herself between her sobs.

"I'm too spliced up. I'm too spliced up! Nobody's going to want me!"

_Spliced up? Sandra's a splicer? Oh…_

Diane recognized the woman instantly as Sandra Teeter, a former friend she had known from New York. Sandra had followed Diane to Rapture, but the two had drifted apart. Diane guessed, for a time with a touch of pride, that it was due to jealousy that one could have the pleasure of Andrew Ryan and the other couldn't. Diane thought she should reach out to Sandra and possibly comfort her, but drew back. She didn't know Sandra like she had before, and besides, why should she comfort someone whom she remembered as a tough girl capable of comforting herself? Diane silently sidled to the sink farthest away from Sandra and began reapplying her makeup in what she knew was a futile hope to look good for Ryan. Most of her knew that their relationship was all but dead, yet part of her clung to the hope that he would still show up and tell her she looked gorgeous tonight. As she put on lipstick in anticipation of this, she tried to tune out Sandra's sobs, but couldn't help but hear her gibberish.

"Steinman…you said ADAM would make me pretty, pretty enough to steal Andrew Ryan's heart. Now look at me! Look at me!"

Diane swabbed on mascara.

"So I kept splicing and splicing…ADAM gives us no excuse to not be beautiful. And now…look at me!!"

Diane finished her makeup job and hurried to leave. Before stepping out of the room, she dared a peek at Sandra's mirror. Diane choked and instantly looked away. In the light cast by the wedding cake chandelier, she could clearly see Sandra's eye sockets sagging. Her face was slashed by premature wrinkles, and her lips were skewed at a disturbing angle. She looked mentally retarded. Diane darted out of the ladies' room and back to her table, wanting desperately to put that image of her spliced-up former friend out of her head. She didn't want to consciously admit that that could be her some day. As she darted back to her table, she looked about her at all of the masked revelers.

_What's the real reason for these masks? _she wondered.

Diane focused on hoping to see Ryan waiting for her at their table. The cocktail chair across from hers was still empty when she arrived back. She stood up instantly to get a bottle of Fountainhead Cabernet Sauvignon from the bar.

_Maybe he'll be back now._

When she came back, the chair was still empty.


	4. Chapter 4: An Argument Before a War

**Steve Barker**

The Footlight Theater and the Kashmir Restaurant had always shared a semi-symbiotic relationship. There were only two ways to get into the theater, and one was through the Kashmir. Thus, the Footlight benefited from being in close proximity to a magnet for those who paid well, and since the Footlight didn't have a bar, the Kashmir benefited from an influx of customers looking to get hammered after the latest Sander Cohen production. However, simply because there were mutual benefits didn't mean that the owners of the two establishments got along. Steve Barker, the owner of the Footlight, had received several harassing audio notes from Brenda complaining that his theater attracted too many working class types to the area, which drove away her best-paying customers. That had not done good things for the rapport between the two businesspeople. And now, Steve was going to the Kashmir to follow-up on a beef he'd been having with Brenda for the past three weeks and was hoping to get her to take some action on. A small gas explosion had ripped a hole in the wall between the Kashmir's men's room and the Footlight's upper balcony a few weeks prior, and much to Steve's annoyance, Brenda had done a thing about it except clean out the remains of the detonated toilet and the poor soul who'd had the bad luck to be on it when the gas exploded. Steve entered the Kashmir's cocktail lounge/dance floor via the Footlight door and pushed his way through the crowd of dancers to the bar where he knew he'd find Brenda. Even if she wasn't there at the time, she would be sooner or later. When he found the bar lacking her presence, Barker coolly ordered a Fountainhead and drank it slowly, enjoying its good oak barrel taste. While a rebroadcast of the most recent football game was playing on the bar's television screens, no one was paying attention to it. Instead, Barker saw the man who played the voice of Jim on the "Jim and Mary" propaganda playlets in heated discussion with several bankers and other businessmen.

"No," said the voice actor. "I agree with Ryan. What good is our philosophy if it's not tested? And now that it's clearly proven its ability to survive adversity, we shouldn't worry about the working class or whatever. Let's just move on, all right?"

"Are you saying that because you actually agree with it," asked a banker near him. "Or are you saying it because your job depends on it?"

"No, I'm saying it because I agree with the man. I agree with what the banner out in the Transit Hub says: Altruism is the Root of All Wickedness. During the war with Fontaine, I worked for my money, making all those announcements for Ryan, and I paid my own way. Why can't the workers do the same?"

"Because they're a whiny bunch who constantly complain that their wages are too low to be able to afford anything, including basic needs like food, medical care, and even public bathrooms."

"Bunch of whiners, I'm telling you. I mean, what do they expect, for the Central Council to hand these things out to them for free? Do they expect Rapture to have a dole? If they do, then they can go home crying. The workers need to learn that there ain't no such thing as a free lunch. They need to work for and pay for whatever they use, even bathrooms and walkways. And if they don't like the prices at one bathroom, go to another and use it if it has lower prices. That's the fundamental principle of the free market: they have a choice. And why they don't get that is beyond me."

Barker didn't hear any more of the debate because Brenda had just arrived.

"What is it Steve?" she asked in a put-upon tone. "If you didn't notice, I'm busy tonight."

"Mmmhmm," replied Barker. "And I was busy too. Busy having to close down my theater again because of that ungodly smell coming out of your men's room! When are you going to fix that hole, huh?"

"I already told you! I can't do nothing about it until the contractor comes up here."

"Well it's been three weeks Brenda! Three freakin' weeks! Does it really take three weeks for that guy to take care of a gas explosion? Whatever happened to market efficiency? Geez! Get that guy up here, as every day that hole stays there is another day I lose money!"

"I don't care what happens to your money! You can flush it all into the ocean for all I care."

"Yeah, well wait until your restaurant starts losing revenue from the customers my respectable theater attracts. Then you'll be singing a different tune."

"A tune to what? _John Henry_? Steve, your theater attracts nothing but working class numnuts out of Port Neptune who can't afford to lick the gum off my shoe, never mind anything I sell. The only revenue I'm losing is from the big spenders you're driving away!"

"Oh really? Last time I counted, a good half of my guests were regulars at your restaurant."

"And? They'd still come here even if your theater went dark."

"Oh come on Brenda! I'm asking you nicely here! Just please do something about that hole in the wall!"

"Mmmhmm, but only when the contractor gets up here. And when it does get fixed, it's only because it's hurting my business. I don't care about yours. If you can't compete with Fleet Hall, that's not my problem."

Steve smacked down the bottle of Fountainhead in disgust.

"Geez woman! You're impossible!"

"Heh, Charlie would love you! Why don't ya go drink with him sometime!"

Barker stalked away from the bar. He began for the door over which hung the Footlight's marquee, but instead decided to go to the scene of his pet peeve. He hurriedly stomped up the stairs, past the modern art, bows, ribbons, smoking men, and kid carrying a dustpan full of ashes and into the bathroom labeled "GENTS." At the very end he could see the yellow caution tape blocking off the area where a stall used to be. Steve pulled the new Accu-Vox he'd ordered last week out of his suit coat pocket and, standing in front of the tape, recorded a quick angry message for Brenda telling her to fix the hole.

"Hey, keep it down, ya nutcase!"

Startled, Steve looked to his left where a man in a business suit with a carnation in its lapel, obviously drunk, was slouched forward as he sat on a toilet. Surrounding him and his jury-rigged chair were several bottles of Old Tom Whiskey.

"Can't an honest guy drink in peace? Geez!"

Steve ignored the drunk and finished his message. He then placed the Accu-Vox on the floor. That was when he heard the banging. It sounded like numerous hands pounding on a dull metallic object. It was loud enough for Steve to instantly cross it off as delusion.

"Hey, do you hear that?" he asked the drunk.

"Hear what? I don't hear nothin' but your yammerin'! Get outta here! Lemme be in peace!"

"Gah, you're useless!"

The drunk's usefulness may have declined, but the banging didn't.

"Geez, are they banging the midnight drums already?" he asked himself.

"I said shaddap and get out!"

Brushing off the drunk, Steve hurriedly ducked under the tape and entered the Footlight. The smell of the bathroom and the drunk's whiskey followed him onto the theater's balcony. But he didn't notice that like he should've. He instantly forgot about the hole in the wall behind him and all his trouble with Brenda because of what he saw.

The doors of the Footlight burst open and in poured a wave of people dressed in overalls, technicians' uniforms, and working caps. Dock workers, cops, and engine room technicians flowed torrentially into the theater, climbing over seats and in some cases ripping them out entirely and throwing them aside because the seat had been in their way.

"Power to the People!! POWER TO THE PEOPLE!!"

"Get Ryan! Get the elites!!"

Some of the men and women scaled the art deco pillars supporting the second floor balcony with red-hot steel hooks.

"What the-" asked a disoriented Steve. "My theater!!"

His comment caused one of the wall-scalers to notice him. Steve may have survived, had he not been wearing a suit. Just seconds after uttering those words, Steve felt a red hot pain sear his insides. He gasped as he fell down to his knees. His vision blurred as his insides burned. He looked at his chest only to notice a red-hot hook stuck in his heart. Steve became dimly aware that other scalers were now surrounding him.

"Aw come on, you didn't need to do that!" one said. "This guy was nice to us, he put on discount shows. You could've let him live!"

"Then bad luck for him that he looked like one of them," said another.

Faint, Steve moaned as he fell off the second floor balcony hand landed chest-flat on the blood-red carpet of his theater, which only drove the hook further into his heart.


	5. Chapter 5: The Riot

**Diane McClintock**

_"The stars belong to everyone, they gleam, they're for you and me. The flowers in spring, the robins that sing, the sunbeams that shine, they're yours, they're mine. And the sun belongs to everyone. The best things in life are free!" _

Diane was surprised that Rapture Radio would play that song. At least as surprised as one could be when numbed up on Chechnya Vodka and Arcadia Merlot. She knew that song annoyed Ryan to no end because it implied universal ownership and the ability to enjoy something without having to pay for it. As Ryan had told her a year or two ago, that was one reason he had ordered an entrance fee be established at Arcadia, Rapture's underwater forest. Since then, the spring flowers, singing robins, and artificial sun lamps could only be enjoyed by those willing to pay fifteen credits.

"That's the Ryan I know and love," she said to herself. "Where did he go?"

Behind her, the potential Little Sister poked at a slice of chocolate cake covered with mint sprinkles.

Diane sighed again and reached for her Accu-Vox.

_Might as well record this oh-so-brilliant moment_, she thought dejectedly. The song ended and was replaced by lively saxophone music. Diane pushed the Record button.

"Another New Year's, another night alone," she began. "I'm out, and you're stuck in Hephaestus working. Imagine my surprise. I guess I'll have another drink."

She gave off a drunken giggle as she poured herself another glass of Arcadia Merlot.

"Here's a toast to Diane McClintock, the silliest girl in Rapture. Silly enough to fall in love with Andrew Ryan, silly enough to-"

The doors leading to the Footlight Theater burst open. Sounds similar to those set off by fireworks screeched through the dance floor area before deafening explosions ensued. Grenades, hand-made from tin cans, detonated in the middle of crowds of dancers. In the chaos of blood and fire the music stopped playing and surviving patrons began screaming and running, bumping into each other, knocking each other down, and trampling over fallen children. Mixed in with the terrified screams of the patrons were angry shouts, malicious curses against the rich and powerful, and the sounds of pistol fire.

"What? What happened?"

Diane hazily noticed numerous patrons bottlenecking trying to get up the single flight of stairs. Suddenly several grenades rained down on the stairs from the balcony above. The sound of their clinks wavily reached Diane. They detonated almost as soon as they hit the ground, incinerating and ripping those closest to them apart and sending the wounded flying. Whoever the assailants were, Diane could dimly tell they were attacking both the upstairs and downstairs sections of the Kashmir as screams, gunshots, and grenade blasts were heard on both levels. Diane watched puzzled as a man in a rabbit mask tumbled screaming over the balcony from the gentleman's club above.

"HELP ME!!" he cried.

He hit his head at an odd angle on the couch below. As that happened, she saw a man armed with what looked like red-hot hooks plunge his weapons into an injured woman's chest as she laid helplessly on the stairs leading down to the dining room. Other assailants ran down those steps, hurling hooks and firing pistols. Behind Diane, the father forced his daughter down on the floor and used his body as a human shield to protect her. His wife was beyond help. It would be quite impossible for her to enjoy a proper steak now with a hook lodged in the back of her head. Diane barely saw a blurry hook headed in her direction. She didn't even feel it as it flashed across her face. She still fell off her chair and on to the floor, which may have saved her life. In front of her, she saw a pool of blood wash away from her face. Now that she saw it, she could feel warm liquid coursing over her lips and cheeks.

"I'm bleeding…oh God…what's happening?"


	6. Chapter 6: Breaking the Chain

**Jim O'Toole**

"Jim, can you get me a prime cut from the icebox? We have to fill that lady's order now."

"Sure." Jim opened one of the iceboxes lining the kitchen's back wall and reached in to grab a New York steak when suddenly he heard an explosion outside the walls. Screams and angry shouts filtered in through the thick tiles. He straightened up, an odd look on his face.

"What the heck?" he asked.

He peeked back around the corner where the kitchen staff had stopped doing what they were doing and looked at each other, unsure, frightened, and confused.

"Everybody, just stay calm," ordered Barry. "We'll just go out and make sure everybody is…"

Brenda burst in from the cocktail lounge.

"BARRY!! GET THE REGISTER FROM THE BAR!"

"What?"

"We're under attack! Get the register!!"

"What? Attack? By whom?"

"I don't care! Just get the money!"

"Thank God there's no gun control down here."

Barry pulled a pistol with an oversized clip and ammo accelerator out from under his apron and charged out of the kitchen. Jim stood frozen in place. Barry suddenly burst back into the kitchen carrying a register under one arm and firing his custom pistol with the other.

"They're coming!" he shouted. "They're freaking coming and they're coming on heavy!!"

He dashed toward Jim, hoping to hide the register behind the partition that divided the iceboxes from the rest of the kitchen.

"Jim, hide!" he shouted.

Jim didn't need a second order. Almost instantly the kitchen door was bashed in. Obviously the "Employees Only" signs in front of it had failed to keep the attackers away. They flew in, firing their pistols. Cooks and runners screamed and cried for help as bullets ripped through the air. Jim only saw a brief glimpse of the assailants as they blew their way in and took down Carl before he dropped the steak and ran behind the partition. Barry fired into the assailants from that position, dropping a few of them as Jim opened and dove into the far icebox. He held the door slightly ajar, hopefully not enough to be perceptible but enough to not get sealed in. The cold of the ice bit into Jim as prostrated himself on it. It felt like a billion freezing needles piercing his skin.

"Too cold. Too…too cold," he grimaced.

Outside he heard the dull ring of shots, the muffled sound of a scuffle, a thud, the ching of a register opening up, and scurrying, laughing footsteps as some victorious attackers raided it. The ice continued to bite into him. He shut his eyes. He could still hear footsteps as they rummaged around outside. How long until they found him?

"Can't…"

Jim felt himself begin to enter shock.

The footfalls continued outside.

"Can't…"

The attackers moved away. Jim exhaled painfully and opened the door just far enough to stick his head out. He lay that way for a long time. The sound of footsteps leaving the kitchen and the pandemonium in the restaurant registered distantly on Jim's radar.

_I have to get out of the icebox, _thought Jim. _If I don't, I'll get hypothermia._

Yet inertia kept him deadbolted to his current position. His body refused to let him move, partially due to the cold, and partially due to the shock at the sudden, furious chain of events.

_Gotta move!! Gotta move!! I am NOT going to die here!_

With that, Jim found the willpower to get his grudging body to move. He slumped out of the icebox and onto the floor. He looked up. He could just make out a male figure holding a cash register tight to its belly. A customized pistol lay just a few feet away.

"Barry?" said Jim anemically. "Barry, come on, get up."

He shook Barry with the little energy he had, but Barry wouldn't move. Jim had to accept the fact that what people on the surface called Barry's soul had fled its mortal cage. Jim collapsed on the floor again. He was sleepy, and his body was doing its best to knock him out.

_No, uh-uh! _thought Jim to himself. _No, I'm not falling asleep. If I do, I don't wake up again. I have to...keep moving._

With a lot of effort, he crawled over to the corner of the partition on his elbows and chest. Then, grabbing the corner, he hoisted himself up. He slapped himself on the face several times to wake up. Noticing a New Year's cake sitting on a nearby counter, Jim staggered over to it and devoured it for energy. He then leaned against the counter. Outside he could hear nothing, except a very faint groaning and some slight vibrations coming from far away.

_I have to get out of here._

Jim stumbled over the corpses of his coworkers. Brenda's silent form lay near the door. While Jim didn't know it, she had survived with only bullet injuries, as had Charlie and the voice actor out near the bar. As Jim walked towards the door, he regained most of the control of his legs, so they didn't feel like jello anymore as he stepped into the cocktail lounge. As soon as he did, he tripped over the body of an attacker Barry had dropped. As soon as he regained his balance, Jim examined the body. It was that of a rather heavyset man with overalls, a workman's cap, and a short tawny beard. Another similar body lay just a foot away, and still another a short distance from that. Their weapons, such as small pistols and homemade grenades, were scattered about them along with a few odds-and-ends and pep bars.

"Dockworkers," said Jim to himself.

He walked out from behind the staircase to take in the full panorama of the Kashmir's bottom floor. Jim realized that he was looking out over a massacre. The lights were completely out. The bodies of several bankers and two bartenders were scattered about the cocktail lounge. The dance floor was pock-marked with scorch-marks where grenades had detonated. Bodies of patrons, some still wearing their masks and others burned completely, were strewn out from the blast radii. Down in the dining room underneath the statue of Atlas, diners sat either slumped over at their tables or prostrate on the floor. The stench of burnt carpet and bodies intermingled with that of cigarette smoke. Upon taking this in, Jim rushed for the bar and did the only thing an 18-year-old who had seen this and lived in a city with no legal drinking age could do: grabbed a bottle of Chechnya Vodka and downed part of it. He dropped the rest. In all of this, Jim had forgotten the faraway groaning and vibrating he had experienced in the kitchen. All of that suddenly came rushing back to him as he felt the room shake with a deep groan. A new stench, some sort of pheromone, stung the air. He snapped his head up to look in the direction of the sound. A Big Daddy lumbered down the staircase. Neutral green light emanated from the numerous portholes on his mask. He groaned as he walked, his big drill swinging from his right arm and his heavy metal boots making big clanking vibrations whenever they landed on a surface. In front of him, Jim saw two pin-pricks of orange light. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see the outline of a dark-haired little girl wearing a faded purple dress. In her right hand was a large hypodermic needle. A glowing red collection chamber hung off the end of it.

"_Approaching a Little Sister is a criminal offense. Do not approach the Little Sisters."_

The chilling female voice came over the P.A. System, seemingly addressing itself only to Jim. The announcement repeated three times for emphasis. As it did, Jim watched the Little Sister jump from the bottom step onto the blood-red carpet and look around her.

"Wow, Mr. Bubbles! Look at all these angels!"

Given the Little Sister's disheveled and eerie appearance, Jim was surprised she sounded so normal. The unaffected quality of her voice struck a chord in Jim's memory. The Little Sister's voice was inflected with just a hint of a Romanian accent. The last time Jim had heard that voice was four months ago.

"Masha?"

Masha turned her head at the sound and focused on Jim with her two bright orange eyes. Her Big Daddy heard too. He instantly stopped acting so lethargic and, surprisingly quickly for a person in such a bulky dive-suit, rocketed down the stairs and put himself in front of Masha. He roared angrily at Jim, hoisting his right arm up and spinning the big drill on its end to life. Jim clapped his hands over his mouth and prostrated himself against the wall. His eyes widened into big puddles of fear.

"It's all right Mr. Bubbles," said Masha calmly. "He's not hurting us. Let's get back to work."

The Big Daddy acquiesced, deactivating his drill and lowering the aggression in his groaning.

"But," added Masha. "If he comes any closer, take care of him."

The Big Daddy turned towards Jim as a warning and then backed away as Masha went to her work. Jim watched in a lurid fascination as she plunged her needle into the nearest corpse, extracting blood from it. Inside the needle, a special filter separated the plasma, platelets, erythrocytes, and leukocytes from what was truly desired: the ADAM. Masha finished one extraction and then turned the needle up so the collection chamber drained its red contents into her mouth. When Masha was finished ingesting the ADAM, she repeated the process.

"I'm a good girl Mr. B!" she said happily.

Jim stood there against the wall for a long time, watching but trying not to absorb what Masha was doing to each and every corpse she came across. He hoped that Mr. and Mrs. Lutz never got to see what had become of their daughter. All the while her Big Daddy trailed her closely, looking around for any possible signs of danger while keeping a close eye Jim. Every once in a while Masha would say something like "Hop hop Mr. B!" or start singing to herself. As she and her Big Daddy began operating on the far side of the room near the stage Jim could hear a sound different from Masha's needle plunging into a body, the Big Daddy's groaning, or Masha's little coughs each time she ingested the ADAM. He could hear crying.

"Is that Masha?" he asked himself. He focused in on the sound. It didn't sound like it was coming from the stage, but rather from the dining room. He looked over that way. Underneath one table where a woman sat with a hook impaled into the back of her head, Jim could see the outline of a small girl sitting near the corpse of a man. Her little body shuddered each time it shed tears. Jim automatically knew that he should help that little girl.

Then something stopped him.

"_The parasite has his eye on Rapture. Keep YOUR eye on the parasite."_

That announcement had been haranguing Rapture ever since Jim was born. It had been played so often it had become ingrained in Jim's head. He barely even heard it anymore when it came over the P.A. System. It only came back to him at times like this. He remembered what the men upstairs had been talking about while he had been cleaning their ashtray. Altruism, the guiding moral principle of the parasite vs. rational selfishness, the guiding moral principle of Rapture. Jim lived in Rapture, and thus his highest good was supposed to be whatever benefited him the most. He remembered then what Masha had said to her Big Daddy: "If he comes any closer, _take care_ of him." Jim saw where the crying girl was, and knew that if he went over that way he would definitely be getting closer to Masha. If she noticed, Jim would quickly find a Bid Daddy drill lodged in his chest.

_What's the point of trying to rescue that girl if I'd only get myself killed? _Jim asked himself. _Besdies, even if I did successfully rescue her, her parents are dead. What's to stop anybody from turning her into a Little Sister? She'll be no better off than Masha if I save her. But…_

Jim realized that his second reason for not trying to save that girl, meant to reinforce his first reason, cut both ways. If he did save her, she would likely be turned into a Little Sister. But if he didn't, she would either die here or would be turned into one later anyway. If he did save her, at least she would have a fighting chance at survival, and maybe even a chance to avoid disappearing into Point Prometheus. Jim then knew what was right. There had only been two things keeping him pinned to the wall: Ryan's philosophy and the Big Daddy's drill. Jim had broken the chain of the first one, which in turn freed him from all fear of the second. He knew that even if what he was about to do wasn't right by Ryan's standards, it was right by some overarching, more natural standard. He stepped away from the wall.

Jim edged along the bar, keeping himself as far away from Masha as possible. There was no point in heroically striding across the room, because that wouldn't help the crying girl at all. Jim crept down the dining room steps, keeping his back prostrate to the wall, and then around the curve of the window. Eventually he made the loop around the tables, bodies, and the statue of Atlas to where the crying girl was sitting next to the corpse of who was presumably her father. Jim knelt down by the girl.

"Hey there," he said in as soothing a voice as possible. "What's wrong?"

The girl looked up at him with wet eyes. "My daddy," she choked silently. "They did something to my daddy, and now he won't move. Neither will mommy."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. I was eating my cake, and then there were loud noises and people screaming. Daddy put me on the floor. All I remember after that is a long time when I was afraid. Now it's quiet, and daddy won't move."

"I'm sorry," said Jim. "Well, my name is Jim. I work here. I washed the same plate your cake came on tonight."

The girl wiped her eye. "My name is Kate. Can you…can you help my daddy?"

"No, I'm sorry," said Jim. "But I can help you. You see those buildings outside the window?"

"Yes."

"That's the Medical Pavilion. It's safe there. There are doctors and people who will help you. If you let me, I can help you get over there."

"I don't like it there," said Kate. "That's where daddy takes me to the dentist."

"Well, I'm not taking you to the dentist," said Jim. "Just to where we can get some help. Besides, wouldn't you rather be there than here."

"Well…yes," said Kate.

"Great," said Jim. "Now, come on, did your dad ever give you a piggy-back ride?"

Kate shook her head.

"Okay, I'm going to keep kneeling down. You just walk around me, wrap your arms around my neck, put your legs out so I can hold them, and I'll get you up to Medical. And whatever they ask you there, say that you're my little sister."

"But I'm not," said Kate.

"I know," said Jim. "But trust me, if you do, things will turn out better."

Kate nodded and obeyed. With her safely perched on his back, Jim walked towards the staircase. That was when he heard a groan. It wasn't from the Big Daddy, but from a distinctly feminine source nearby. Jim looked down on the floor next to him.

"There, there!" Kate pointed. A blonde woman was lying limply there. Jim recognized her from earlier.

"Ms. McClintock!" Jim whispered.

"Who?" asked Kate.

"Diane McClintock, Andrew Ryan's, um, girlfriend."

"Oh."

Jim knelt down, still holding Kate tightly.

"Ms. McClintock," he whispered. "Are you all right?"

He heard her groan.

"What…what happened?" she asked weakly.

"There's been an attack," said Jim. "I don't know who did it, I don't know why, but point is that you're all right. Can you walk?"

"I…I don't…I don't think so," muttered Diane.

"Well, then I'll help you up. Kate, can you hold on tightly while I help up Ms. McClintock?"

Kate nodded.

"Great. One, two, three."

Jim placed his arm under Diane's body and lifted her up. Kate helped by grabbing Diane's fur muff and pulling up with her tiny hand. Within moments, Diane was up. Jim supported her with his right arm, carrying her limp and almost inchoate form across the dining room floor while Kate held on from behind. He made it to the opposite window, just as Masha and her Big Daddy rounded the corner. Jim stopped. Masha turned to look at him, as he did to her. She stared intently at him for a moment, then at the people he was carrying. The Big Daddy looked from Masha to Jim, his drill at the ready.

"It's okay Mr. B," said Masha. "They're not angels. I don't see any light coming from their bellies. He's just trying to help them. Let's just move on, Mr. B. I know they'll all be angels soon."

Jim didn't wait for another invitation. Masha may have talked freaky, but still what mattered was that she had given Jim, Kate, and Diane a chance when she could easily have ordered her Big Daddy to kill them. That was all Jim needed from his former neighbor. He made his way across the dance floor to the Footlight Theater marquee. However, the door wouldn't open. Jim noticed that it was covered in blood and blocked by several dismembered bodies. He ordered Kate to shut her eyes, and then tried to think fast. The halls around the Footlight were the only way to get to the Transit Hub that led to Medical. Was there another way to get into the Footlight?

His mind flashed back to just a few weeks prior when he had been cleaning the men's bathroom. A show at the Footlight had just ended and the audience was spilling into the Kashmir for drinks, refreshment, and bathroom use. A man who looked like a dockworker in Neptune's Bounty had stopped Jim as he mopped.

"Hey, kid, can you spare three credits?"

He motioned to the only unoccupied stall, the one at the far end of the men's room. Like all of the bathrooms in the Kashmir, access to it was granted only if the person would pay the seven credits to use it.

"I'm sorry sir," Jim had said, even though he had thirty credits in his pocket. "I'm not allowed to give customers money. It's restaurant policy."

"Well, you can give me a beer if I ask for it, right?"

"I can't, but if you went to the cocktail lounge and paid for one, yes."

"And if I asked for a cake I'd get it, right?"

"If you can pay, yeah."

"Well I'm asking for a bathroom, why am I not getting it?"

"Because you have to pay for it. I'm sorry sir, it's restaurant policy."

"Can I see your manager?"

"Sure."

Jim then remembered that the man got into a fight with the already combative Brenda, with a lot of words about what was a natural right and what wasn't were exchanged. Brenda, frustrated, eventually just threw three credits at the man and stalked off. The man then went into his stall, and Jim remembered that about four seconds later as he loaded copies of the _Rapture Tribune _into the news vending machine in the smoking lounge, the gas line exploded. In addition to taking out the toilet and the dockworker, it had driven that infamous hole into the wall that had irked Steve Barker to no end. As far as Jim knew, it still hadn't been fixed. That hole led directly into the Footlight, and if Jim could get to the stairs that led to the theater's main floor, he could get out and go on to Medical. Still carrying Diane and Kate, he labored up the stairs, through the body-strewn smoking lounge, past the corpse of a drunk in the men's room surrounded by his bottles of Old Tom Whiskey, and through the hole. Jim didn't look back into the restaurant that had formerly been his place of employment. Instead he stepped onto the rigging that supported the stage lights and continued on to the other side.

Five days later Jim and Kate left Medical. They had admitted Diane, and tended to Kate's minor injuries before clearing her. Jim and Kate had been detained in the Kure All Pharmacy, being interrogated separately about the events in the Kashmir that night. Jim was shocked to learn that the restaurant had only been one of six locations of bloodshed. There had been death all over Rapture that New Year's Eve. From the Kashmir to the Tea Garden to Athena's Glory, almost as many rioting workers had been killed as elites. Another bloody people's revolution to go down as such in the history books, Jim thought to himself. The cops, obviously rushed to figure out what had happened and too unstructured to check their records, believed Kate's story that Jack was her big brother and had been under his care that night at the Kashmir. They let the two of them go together. Now Jim, with Kate holding his hand, stepped out of the Rapture Metro bathysphere into Jim's middle class neighborhood, located between Olympus Heights and Apollo Square. Demeter Avenue had largely avoided any of the New Year's chaos, though its metro station and tram tunnels were being used as a triage area for victims of the attacks on Olympus Heights who could not be admitted to the overloaded Medical Pavilion. Jim led Kate past the doctors, nurses, policemen, rushing family members, and patients on stretchers, up the central stairs in his apartment building, and to his parents' front door. He knocked and was greeted by his mother who hugged him, overjoyed to see her son safe and sound. His father stood behind her, equally euphoric.

"Oh Jim, I'm so glad you're safe! Oh thank God, oh thank God," she said over and over again, hugging her son.

"Jim," asked his father as he approached Kate. "Who's this?"

"That's Kate, dad," Jim said. "Her parents were killed in the attack on the restaurant, and she had nowhere to go, so I helped her." He looked into his father's eyes as the man knelt down next to his new daughter. Jim spoke up again for emphasis, with a warm smile on his face:

"I helped her."


End file.
